The Apprentice
by VegetaCold
Summary: A look into the life of Robin with Slade had the teen titans not been so clever. DARN THOSE KIDS! Follows its own storyline as Robin is forced further into obedience by Slade but begins to connect with him, while the Titans struggle to fight Robin off and to find a way to remove the deadly probes. Story is not sexual/yaoi.
1. Fire and Brimstone

The city was cold that night, cold and, surprisingly dark—surprisingly empty. I guess the Titans had things under control without me, because the monitors on Slade's computer showed a quiet unlike one I'd ever seen. It was literally as if he was really the only cause for trouble to us—and now that he had me on his side, there was no reason to bother the others, my "former" friends, seemingly completely meaningless now. For some reason it was a weird slap in the face to me, as if I didn't like the idea that I had in all reality been the sole cause for terror on this city by Slade's hands, or that he wasn't impressed by the others' skills even though that should have been endearing to me—that he wanted me, and only me. But it wasn't. I was angry, and offended, and now in this weird quiet that fell over Slade's secret underground hideout, I felt more anger towards him than when he'd been ordering me to attack my friends, as if then I was so engrossed in the fighting I actually wasn't thinking about what he'd done, or how it had changed my life. In this quiet now, with no duties from Slade but to be good and stay in this room, what I guess is now my room, I could really think about him—and how much I hated him.

Besides those huge screens on the walls of this place, I'd say his hideout is little more than a shelter for planning, nothing like a home, and nothing like our tower, which I had grown so accustomed to. It was freezing; maybe that was simply because heat travels up, and cold goes down—something I should have learned more about in school if I'd been a normal kid, which I was really wishing for at this present moment. But that was my general understanding; and I figured that Slade, in that suit he wears, must not be very sensitive to temperature, or maybe is just so soulless he doesn't care. Either way, I was freezing, and shivering, allowing myself to, now that I was out of his eyesight if just for a few hours. And of course I wasn't about to go telling him about the cold—in fact I wasn't about to go to him for anything, or take anything from him. I wanted to show him that no matter what he believed I would never see things his way, or treat him like a father—never. I would show him that no matter what he did, he would never make me his apprentice_. _He could make me obey him, but he could not _make_ me his _apprentice._ So I would have to tough it out—tough being the key word here because we keep the tower at a warm seventy or so degrees during these colder days even though Raven can't stand it gets on the verge of locking herself in the freezer, so I wasn't used to it—and really wasn't looking forward to _getting_ used to it.

Furthering my belief that he'd never meant it as a home, my room was basic, and though I knew he couldn't care less about interior decorating and neither could I, I could tell he'd had it prepared for some time—as if he'd been planning this thing for some time, but then he probably had, and I didn't doubt it. This underground factory-warehouse—whatever it is—wasn't built to be lived in, but he had put some thought into it, apparently, providing me with a big enough bed that was arguably softer than the one I usually slept on, but that was it. There was _nothing _else in the room, besides the small communication screen which Slade could use to contact me whenever he pleased. I couldn't tell if it was a TV also but didn't really care, though if I had I would have been too worried to touch it, that if I tampered with it he might find that as cause to murder my friends. Also a special hanger for the new suit I'm obligated to wear, and another one new to it that has clothes for sleeping—but apparently, if I'm not sleeping, I have to have that damn suit on, like I've been branded, though, and I'll never admit this to Slade, the suit itself is actually cool and is pretty versatile allowing for a large range of movement, and also coming with other features my old costume didn't have, I kind of liked it, even if I resented that metal S lingering there more than anything else—like in that S, there was the embodiment of evil. S was the devil's letter. But what surprises me more than anything about that suit—it fits me _perfectly_, which is so weird considering that while he could have been planning this thing for months there was no way he could have known my body like he did—but he _did_. And that, really to sum it up, makes me want to vomit.

Aside from that, the room's bare, allowing for a pretty boring experience when it comes to being cast into the room so Slade can have some alone time, doing whatever it is he does. That's only at night though, because during the day if there's any time when I'm not doing some sort of mission, stealing something, he makes me train—sometimes with him, and sometimes I just do workouts. Something, at least, like my life before this—before Slade. And I don't mind them, which is what makes it tolerable because it's not as if what he's asking me to do is all that hard. I can combat his stupid servants easily, or practice working out with my staff. But I knew that was a problem for him; he wanted to push me, to make me better than I already was, even though I've landed a few pretty good punches on him, and me simply doing something that was easy for me was a waste of both of our time. He increased the skill level, which again I didn't mind even though it was hard, because I liked the challenge. But one day I mouthed off to him when he told me to begin training. Said something like—"Easy for you to say when you're always just sitting around."

His eye narrowed. "What would give me any excuse to train—what need, what threat is posed to me? You, or your worthless friends, or anyone else in this awful city?" He chuckled scornfully within his mask. "Young man, the day you become as strong as I am now then you can sit idly. But you have a long way to go."

I reiterated to him what I was thinking now. "Yeah? So what about that crack in your mask? The one from my foot? Maybe you didn't realize it, _Slade_, but if you didn't hide behind that mask of yours like a freaking coward then you would have realized you were licking my goddam boot when I smashed it into your face."

I was so mad I could have spit, but he simply chuckled, keeping that calm, smooth tone of low speaking he had—which was really unnerving because you could never really tell whether or not he was amused at you and found no interest in fighting or if you were about to end up flung into the opposite wall. And I hate to admit it but I _was _scared of that; but I couldn't keep my mouth shut, not like this, not here, not for him. I was angry and fed up with this, maybe realizing for the first time that my friends _weren't _getting me out of this, and I had no way of getting out of this. Suddenly I was regretfully realizing that like he had said, I would be his apprentice forever and there would be no changing that; forever I'd have to fight my former teammates, steal for him, obeying him like some dog? How _could _I keep my mouth shut? But of course he expected that of me.

"_Robin_," he said, and my name came out of his mouth like a well learned song—almost carried out on a smooth breeze. "Have you forgotten yet again about our deal? Just because your former friends know of what I have done to them does not change a thing. Even knowing about my probes there is nothing they can do to remove them, not as long as I am in control of this button. And that means that you are still my apprentice and you will still obey me, and they will die if you do not. And unless you'd like that to happen, I suggest you learn to hold your tongue."

"You don't deserve that respect," I spat, my fists clenching tightly, slowly merging into fighting stance. "And I won't give it to you."

Now I could tell that he was agitated, but he wouldn't let it overtake his voice—only the slightest more narrowing of the eye. His hand went to the button on his wrist and he lifted the cover. "Robin," again, the voice was soft, in that eerie way, and I now definitely knew what was coming—and I knew there was no more messing around with this one, even before he continued, "Do you not take me seriously? Perhaps you need something to help you understand—perhaps the death of your little alien friend whom you care so much about? With such a petite physique I believe she will be the first to die should I activate my probes." His finger was hovering over the button, and I found myself immediately slumping, my eyes looking at my boots. And thus followed a similar conversation to the one we'd had just before they'd burst in—but not that that mattered, or would influence the way Slade thought about me. But I did wonder how much longer, really, I could push it without ending up killing one of my friends, not much further, I had a feeling—though of course their lives weren't worth taking that risk, experimenting to see for sure. If it had been my life, it would have been different. But I couldn't do that to someone else, especially my friends, no matter how much I hated Slade.

"Don't…I take you seriously…I won't…disrespect you…"

His finger still lingered there, and he was looking at me intently, _waiting_—and I knew what he wanted. Painfully, I gave it to him, softly and almost inaudibly but I gave it to him. "I'm sorry…master…" That word tasted awful on my tongue—but maybe that was just the bile I had been gulping back down.

"Good boy," he said, and thankfully he closed the cover and lowered his arm. "And you are forgiven. But if you ever speak to me in such a manner then I will kill all of them and I will not give you a second chance. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes, master." And I turned to go train, praying I would get off easy.

But of course, he stopped me.

"Not so fast young man. I want you to do a thousand push-ups right now as an extra incentive to watch that mouth of yours in the future."

Inside my head that rebellious part of me had a really good comeback—"You seriously want my arms to be that much stronger when I nail you right in your good eye?" and I was really struggling to hold it back. Slade could see it to, the way my face was probably contorting humorously, and he waited, eager to see whether or not he would be aiming to add a fresh bruise to it. And thank god, I actually bit my tongue, literally, keeping the immature quip from slipping out and getting me or my friends nailed, even though there was no way in hell that I wanted to do a thousand push-ups on top of my regular regime—but I would not let them down.  
"Fine," I said simply, trying to talk as little as possible to control that inner hot spring of rage boiling inside me, and lowered down onto the floor on my hands and feet.

I thought I'd probably get away with doing less, but no—he counted every single push-up out loud to me as I did them like a drill sergeant. But that wasn't the worst part of that experience; though the push-ups themselves wouldn't have been that bad, after about the hundredth push up I felt a weight on my back and realized that he had placed one of his heavy, leaden boots there. From there, the other nine hundred were not fun—considering the whole time I was dripping with sweat and trying my hardest not to pant, but considering I was about to collapse to the floor after about five hundred, I wasn't very successful. But even if he had given me the option to quit I wouldn't have; I would have done two thousand just to show him that I was not weak and that he wouldn't break me. But I was also recognizing that I had more training to do afterwards…

When I had finished, I collapsed beneath his foot, finally releasing all the panting I had held in and gasping in what air I could. I was exhausted and wanted nothing more to faint, especially considering I couldn't move an inch of my body and wouldn't be able to if I tried. The thought of more training came to my mind and I wanted to start shrieking. But thankfully, _amazingly_, Slade went easy on me.

"I'm surprised at you, Robin. I didn't expect such stamina today from you. But I'm pleased." He took his foot off my back and I groaned; even through the metal of my suit it felt like that freaking foot had been embedded in my skin the whole time, searing like an iron. I tried to get up, and at first could not.

I didn't expect him to offer me his hand, and it really, and when I say really I mean _really_, caught me off guard. I actually just stared up at him for a few moments, totally stunned, having thought that for sure he would have just watched me struggle on the floor like a dying fish out of water; and even though the gesture wasn't much—not like picking me up and carrying me to bed would have been—but it didn't matter. This was something new and different that just happened between us and I felt it, sappy and probably stupid as that sounds. It was like a bridge was immediately built and no longer was I just his apprentice but something he actually cared about. Or maybe it was a seriousness I felt between us—like from that moment on this odd, painful bond we had would never be broken. We were more than just forced partners—we were two people with an understanding of each other, not one that was only about hate and violence and what we'd do the next time we saw one another. Yeah, it was weird and childish and probably all in my head, probably because of my fatigue, but more than anything it was an excuse for what I did next—something I would never have done no matter the circumstances.

I accepted his hand, taking it weakly. I thought he would have maybe returned that surprise—allowed a sparkle of amazement to shine in his eye just long enough that I could see it. But of course, he didn't, because he wasn't surprised. He knew I would accept his help, after all—why would he have bothered if he didn't believe something would come of it? And even though it was my decision to accept his help I still felt embarrassed and defeated simply because he could not give me that one thing—that notion that I'd caught him off guard. And for the first time I was really beginning to understand that he was in complete control in this relationship; I might be able to land a good punch on him, or kick his mask so hard it split in two, but ultimately he was the one who made the rules of our game, and my resistance was probably just another benefit of playing—it gave him good sport which he couldn't get from anywhere else. And I really started to hate myself when the thought crossed my mind—_then why don't you just obey him and stop fighting? Where will it get you?_

_It'll keep my integrity,_ I told that voice, but in the end I knew I was really kidding myself, because I knew the truth—there really was no point in fighting Slade because he was in total control and there was nothing I could do about it. What good, really, would it be to make myself do a thousand push-ups a day just so I could mouth off to him? Was it really worth my time or energy? And putting it like that made me feel like I had the upper hand—like I was the mature one who was just being considerate and realistic. At least, that was what I would convince myself then, as he easily pulled me off the ground and to my feet, amazing me because he did it so effortlessly yet without straining my sore arms at all.

It took a great effort not to simply allow myself to crash back to the ground, or, worse, right into him, because I was so unstable and too weak to keep myself up right. My legs felt like rubber—something I rarely felt, this intense pain in this form. They started to shake and buckle while my stomach was rolling over like waves and my heart was beating rapidly. And—adding to my humiliation—he moved his hand up to my forearm to steady me. Strangely, from his grip, I felt this weird strength that kept me from falling—like his grip affected the rest of my body, not just my arm. And because of that I didn't fall, which I appreciated and resented at the same time. Normally I would have pulled away—no matter how much logic reasoned with me—but being too weak to do anything else, I didn't see that I had much of an option. Either I could accept his help or wind up back on the floor, where he would undoubtedly leave me for an extended period of time, or even perhaps force me to train—something that would teach me some lesson about pride. And I felt weak, but really—I just couldn't take it anymore. So I did nothing as my once arch-enemy led me to my "bedroom" wordlessly, walking in with me and bringing me to the bed then releasing me. Then then he promptly turned to leave, and for moment I thought I had something—some knowledge that he had realized he'd shown too much affection and was embarrassed and wanted to leave. I was sure that he hadn't meant to coddle me like he did, and for a moment, even though it was a hazy, sleepy moment, I was sure I had him.

Of course, I didn't.

He turned around and his eye narrowed a little. "Sweet dreams_, _Robin," he said softly and purposefully, and then in a moment the lights were off, the door shut, and he was gone.

When I woke up I felt, in a word, horrible. My body ached all over, my arms and back screaming out for relief and a tightness in my chest that made moving nearly impossible. My stomach gave sickening resistance, making me have to hold back the urge to vomit; but my mouth and throat were too dry anyway, and then I had been dripping with sweat, still wearing Slade's uniform from before I'd fallen asleep. And I wanted to get up, more than anything, feeling suffocated and that if I didn't move I probably wouldn't for a while—and I wanted to get out of those clothes, which were made even worse to me now that they were drenched in musky sweat. I had had to start by weakly kicking off my boots, because my legs were truthfully the strongest part of my body at that time, and then I used my hands gradually introducing them to their tasks of removing the suit. It probably took an extra hour, and it was a painful one, but when I had finally removed everything from my body I collapsed back onto the bed and just lay there, fully naked and panting, probably momentarily forgetting, I think, that I had no privacy now—not with Slade, who I knew had his eye on me every minute of each day. Still I was startled when he came in with a new suit for me to put on—startled, and of course, seriously embarrassed, because I was laying there on the bed with nothing on, not even the bed-sheet to cover me. And I couldn't help it—my cheeks were blushing, and were so hot I could feel it.

But now thinking about it he really didn't seem to be caught off guard the way I was, and I figured in the wake of this that he probably had a pretty good knowledge of my body—after all, the suit he had made me was perfectly fitting of course, and even though I didn't know how he did, I just knew—my body really wasn't a mystery to him. But thankfully for me, uncomfortable as it may be as it is, Slade seeing me naked is like to me if Beast Boy and I were in the locker rooms showering after we've sparred, or something; maybe—and though this really makes me want to cringe, or maybe just curl into a ball and die—he was already beginning to view me as his son and so it was only natural to have viewed me in this state and not be disturbed by it—because after all he thought I was his son (and considering he had already thrown out the idea that I might think of him as a father into the open, I wasn't too surprised at his belief). Either way, ultimately, to him it didn't matter, but because it did to me, it amused him, much to further my unfortunateness.

"Good morning, Robin," he said softly as he walked in, again with that unnerving purposefulness. I sat up so quickly to try and cover myself that I cringed and fell back onto the bed, letting out a groan the encompassed the majority of those thousand push-ups, which now I resented more than I had I think when I had been doing them. He ignored this, coming over to the bed and setting the stack of clothes down next to me. "Sore, are we?"

"Thanks to you." I was reaching for the clothes and had my hand on them when suddenly his, maybe twice as big as mine, covered it and rested there. You'd think from experience it would have hurt, that those metal hands would have crushed mine—but it didn't. Not even as I tried to pull away, when it tightened lightly in this weird, steady way that made it impossible to move my hand but didn't feel uncomfortable.

"Robin, you're blushing."

"No shit. Next are you going to tell me that the grass is green, or the sky is blue?" I said bitterly, trying to keep my cool—trying to play it off, but I was embarrassed, and I didn't think I was hiding it that well. But unfortunately it was really all I could do—one last little measure to try to preserve what little pride I had left. I tugged my hand unsuccessfully, growled, and glared at him to cover up that shame, and it took all my power but I made my eyes fix on his own, made them stare him down to try and show him he wouldn't intimidate me under any circumstances. But it was really pretty dumb, because he saw right past it—and I had managed to _get_ myself intimidated. And he knew it, too.

"You're very good at getting yourself into trouble, Robin. _Still_. I know you're a smart boy, so tell me, how long are you going to continue fighting? This hurts you, doesn't it—to go against your better judgment and to throw tantrums like a toddler because you can't be with your worthless little friends? You know it will do you no good, and yet you are too prideful to admit it, even to yourself."

"That's because," I growled, clenching my fist beneath his hand, making my own begin to sweat and to writhe like a caged animal, "it _will _do me good. I already told you—the minute you let your guard down I'll get you."

His eye narrowed slightly. "And I already told _you_, Robin, that that is why we are very much alike. I understand your pain of your stupidity and pride-fullness. I was once there myself, Robin, and I understand that struggle. I am trying to keep you from having to learn it the hard way, like I did. Pride comes before a fall, Robin—but what good would that do if you can learn it less painfully?

I understand that you think giving into me is a sign of weakness, but you are a smart boy, Robin. You'd be weaker to protest. A strong man is the man who uses his brain and applies intelligence. I suggest you begin with how you behave. I'll reiterate again—you know it will do no good to fight me and I offer you to perhaps consider all I am doing for you."

"Threatening to kill my friends if I don't obey?" I scoffed, looking at him now with little trace of the glare left and mostly just a stunned, disbelieving look of—_are you serious?_

"You'll thank me for that in time, Robin. You don't need any friends. They will only cause you a great deal of heartache which could otherwise have been avoided—after all, you're in pain now, aren't you? Had you have never had those friends of yours you would never feel this way. You would not feel so strained, exhausted, conflicted…and perhaps you would see all that I can do for you."

His hand was tightening now—and again, not in a painful way but in a way that was almost…_comforting. _It reminded me of when my father would have my hand and he would have this firm grip on it that was so steady, so controlled, so reliable—like it made everything okay. When he did that my parents weren't dead anymore, and there wasn't any pain of their memory, and the world around me didn't seem as sad and lonely as it always had. It brought a sense of warmth on me, made that city—so long ago—lighter and brighter. It was that touch that kept me going, and probably that touch alone, that kept me connected and kept me away from falling into something I shouldn't and veering off from who I really was. To feel it now—for the briefest minute, a stunned second, it felt okay. And for a second—looking at Slade was like looking at my father.

But then it was gone, and I was back in reality, the present, looking at the monster who had a button which would kill all my friends in an instant if I disobeyed. I was shaken, but still had the urge to fight—even if I knew that he was right in saying that I knew too it would do me no good to protest but I was too prideful. I guess I had decided I owed it to my friends not to give in so easily, to let him suede me onto the dark side; as if giving up was dishonoring our relationship and their memory, but of course that had been one of those mind tricks I was playing with myself, to keep myself from realizing that Slade, the guy I had once thought was completely off his nut, was totally, one hundred percent right. I was fighting to keep the truth out, to keep my pride intact, but more than anything—to keep myself from realizing how much I resented the Titans for putting me in this position and then blaming and accusing me for my actions. I couldn't win and it wasn't fair. But I wouldn't even consider this then.

Instead, I'd just keep trying what I was doing and hope it finally worked to my advantage: "Well if it weren't for them I wouldn't be who I am today. I wouldn't be strong, and I wouldn't be your apprentice. You wouldn't have even known about me."

"Exactly, Robin," he said. "Was it not for them, you'd be free of me, wouldn't you? I suppose they aren't as worthless after all—to me, of course. But you see how they have affected you, in a way which you now see as negative and which is painful to you? Had you been independent you would not have had to worry about such worthless things."

That was hard to hear—yes. Really hard to hear because that voice in the back of my head was agreeing and trying to get me to recognize it by doing so as loud as it could. But I just wouldn't let Slade have that—couldn't let him have it, to preserve their integrity but to also preserve mine, my pride. I continued, but weakening:

"Well I wouldn't be who I am without them. No matter where I've ended up, I wouldn't have had my eyes opened up to see how much good there is in life—which explains a lot in your case, considering you've never had any friends to help you see that."

His eye narrowed again; the hand, tightening around mine, now in a way that made it totally present and unable to ignore in my mind; in a word, it was invasive. Suffocating. Like through that hand he was letting me know just how much he was really present. And he leaned down so our faces were very close.

"Ah, but I don't need friends, Robin. After all, I have you, don't I?"

I gritted my teeth at him, trying to hold back the urge to spit right in his goddam eye, suddenly infuriated. "Get. Away. From me."

His eye narrowed, and at first I thought he was angry; but with only a little amused chuckle, he pulled back and released my hand, turning away towards the door. "You have much still to learn, Robin. But that's alright—after all I wouldn't have chosen you hadn't I believed I could mold you the way I wanted. You will start to see things my way, Robin. It's just a matter of time. But for now why don't we start with something easy: you've by now accepted that you will be here at least until you can—" He chuckled softly, turning slowly to look back at me. "—_catch me off guard_, but until that moment you would best do to start eating what I give you, because sooner or later when you're too weak to stand and dying of hunger my compassion for you will have dwindled."

"And if I eat whatever the hell you give me I'll have ingested some poison or some little device you can use to control me, or…"

"Control you, Robin?" The eye narrowed, yet again. "I don't need to. I have those worthless fools you call friends for that. Besides, what good would it do to control _you_? If I wanted to control someone to be my apprentice, I would have picked any of the thousands of guards I already have doing my bidding—with something similar to what is in the bodies of the Titans, a little probe which could control movement and the like. I could have had an _army_ of them. But I didn't want a robot, Robin. I wanted _you_."

"Well if you wanted me for my attitude, you seem to think it's pretty shitty—so I don't really see any relevance here," I said, glaring back at him, even though this conversation had left me feeling really weak and wanting nothing more than just to collapse back into bed and fall asleep. So you might imagine trying to hold a death stare was difficult, but it was necessary, and it was pretty nature, considering my mind had been processing what he had said, about wanting _me. _Feeling creeped out and offended and strangely flattered, which bothered me, all at the same time. It made me realize and resent the control he obviously had over me in this matter and I couldn't control my frustration, no matter how tired I might be.

"It is, now, yes. But you are still adjusting, and as I have told you, you will see things my way in time. I'm not worried; I foresaw this problem of course. But I'll take the good with the bad when it comes to you, Robin, unlike many things. You're simply that _perfect_. I see so much potential in you, and you will let me realize that within you in time," he said softly, looking at me with a narrow but somehow this eye that was kind of…admiring. Kind of affectionate, indulgent, doting. And that was something that I had not seen once in all of the times that I had ever encountered him, probably because we were fighting. But for that reason also it threw me off that much more, making me freeze with my mouth hung open and my eyes wide with one question bouncing around in my head—_does Slade actually have a _heart_ underneath that metal or am I going crazy?_

And the idea of that on its own had stunned me so thoroughly that I couldn't respond.

So, the cold, unfriendly eye returning, almost immediately after it had left, like his body was telling him that that look he'd had shining in it was foreign and needed to be promptly removed, without him ever realizing the interaction had taken place, he continued him speech about "good starting goals" (and notice as I think this that if I had said it out loud it would have been in the most sarcastic, flippant tone of voice), but of course I wasn't really listening. Simply my mind was fixated on that eye, its image burned into my skull, and I couldn't un-see it—in fact, even today I can't forget it, though I'm not really sure yet if it's something that should be forgotten. And it will probably be a while more before I actually come to a decision about it. At first I felt like I was staring at a book that was all in some language I didn't know but that I had to read otherwise I would end up dying, like it had an antidote recipe to a poison I had drunk—that is, if I didn't figure out what that look meant and what I would take away from it, I would probably end up killing myself from my brain overheating. Just because this was Slade, so, in reality—how the hell was I supposed to feel when suddenly, after years of chasing after me and causing me trouble, he gives me a look like one my father had given me before?

"…affects your training. You know it won't do you any good to try to keep yourself awake while you're here."

"…And risk letting you do _things_ to me while I'm sleeping? No thanks," I quipped after I was present enough to understand our conversation, but my heart wasn't in it. I was still really distant and removed—not really caring but providing protest like it was my job, a boring one I hated, at that.

"You've been sleeping for the past twelve hours, Robin."

I was stunned. Twelve hours straight? I'd never slept that long, and was really unnerved and upturned by the idea, especially when I considered all that time Slade had had while I was in a deep unconscious—but what was more, I was infurated at what he had made me do and how it had affected me like it had—how he'd had that power. But I was still too distracted by the eye to really comprehend this just then, so I said simply, giving reason to the _job resistance_, "Because you made me do a thousand push-ups. Thanks, by the way."

I was gradually becoming more aware of him at present and pushing the weird image back, at least for now, until I could get him out of the room and be done dealing with him, at least for a while.

"I can tell you haven't learned your lesson quite completely. Would you like to do a thousand more, young man?"

I had something sarcastic to say, but faced with the idea of enduring another thousand push-ups, I kept it to myself. "No. I don't."

"Then remember your manners. You try my patience, Robin, and if you continue to back-talk me you shouldn't expect such leniency in the future."

"Fine."

"Then as I was saying, you know that you can get sleep while you're here with me, and I suggest if you'd like to continue having time to rest that you utilize it."

"It's not my fault that I can't let my guard down around you!" I suddenly snapped, aiming to jump up even though I was naked and in pain—so of course I couldn't. But even when I fell back down onto the bed with a groan of pain, I still looked up at him and growled, my fists clenching into tight spheres, about as much movement as I could really do in regards to my upper body. I know I shouldn't have been stupid; I should have just agreed, thus getting him out of my room faster and letting me put my clothes back on, but I couldn't believe him—couldn't believe he thought he could just go tossing his balls around all the time and expecting everyone to bow down to him. Who, really, did he think he was?—and what was more, who did he think he was to insinuate something like that upon me? After all the years of fighting and pain and frustration, he just expected me to be able to act like he was my father—even my friend, at that? And I had had enough, but I had been lucky; had I not been too weak to stand, I would have thrown my fist his way. No good ever came of that, really.

"And I don't expect that of you, Robin—at least, not yet. In time, yes. For now, however, you'd be best to refrain from jerking your eyes open every time you start falling asleep."

"Why do you even care?" I had snapped again, my fists clenching more tightly, again, lucky that I couldn't move or I would have lunged at him because I couldn't control myself. I was growling so loudly, my lips snarled so tightly that they were hurting. But I didn't care—I couldn't care. I hated him and more than anything, than at any other time, I wanted to show it to him.

He tilted his head, staring at me in amusement and raising a hand out to me, keeping on still tucked behind his back formally. "Come now, Robin, you don't want to hurt yourself, do you? That's another thing you must learn—to relax. And so we come back to your sleep; though I don't owe you an explanation I'll humor you. On the most basic of levels, that of the surface, if you don't sleep then you are of no use to me. You'd be equally beneficial dead. And you don't want that to happen, do you?"

"Not before you, no. Not a second before you."

"And neither do I, Robin. Should such a situation take place it would be…unfitting. And so unfortunate. After all you will be following in my footsteps."

"No, I won't," I barked, and bolted up off the bed, pain shooting through me, but then I would not allow myself to fall, even though I was groaning in pain and my legs were shaking, even though the minute I did my body tingled with reopened agony and I was instantly warm with sickness. But I wouldn't let myself fall, clutching onto the bed for support at first, and then slowly finding balance on my feet so that I could glare into his eyes, of course with much trouble, because at the same time I was also trying to keep upright. But again, I wanted to prove something, though I hadn't been sure at the time exactly what that was—but I knew I needed to do it. It was stupid and went against all the logic I possessed, but I couldn't refuse it, like an addiction, a necessity, the _job_. "So get the fuck out of here."

Unsurprisingly, I found myself flung against the opposite wall, and inner-most intelligence was laughing at me—_ha, stupid, you had that coming. Guess you can't push him as much as you thought. _I had collapsed onto the bed, groaning and letting out sounds of pain, my whole body sparking with agony making me writhe helplessly. My teeth were clenched, clenched hard, trying desperately to take back control of my body, but mostly my emotions, at the same time knowing that I had none and there was nothing that could be done to regain that control in the back of my mind. I moaned when his shadow loomed menacingly over me, like something out of a slasher movie.

"You will learn to obey me, Robin. It's only a matter of time before you realize fully your situation and that logic I know you possess kicks in. You will realize your foolishness and you'd be damned if you ever said that to me then. Soon enough, you'll come out of your denial. But for now I have some advice for you, young man: the next time you have something _clever_ to say, _keep your mouth shut_."

He left me alone then, groaning in pain. I ended up passing out again, and another long chunk of time went by before I woke up, feeling better than I had but still sore. Mentally I was drained; when I came out he asked me how I felt, I said I felt fine; he told me to eat, and I did, saying nothing. When I was finished he told me to go back to bed; I did, and fell asleep almost immediately. And from then on I didn't say a word about sleeping or eating, and never protested doing either.

Still I didn't do much of either—especially sleeping. Because the room was freezing I had a hard time sleeping more than five hours at a time, but I never complained about it. And I never moved from the bed, wanting to avoid confrontations which would drain my already empty body and mind. I stayed there until he contacted me through the little screen to tell me it was time to start training—even if I couldn't fall asleep. And tonight was one of those nights, where I actually could not get my eyes to close, no matter how much I tried. In the end, I just wasn't tired, and wanted nothing more than to be right now outside, roaming the streets of the city looking for crime like I used to—from one in the morning until light hit the next day. I loved that time—liked to be awake and loved to be alive. Sleeping made me feel useless and unproductive—but it felt even more so to start a fight which would undoubtedly end in the same pointless conversation, _robin if you don't obey me I'll kill your friends and blah blah blahhhh…. _That just wasn't worth it. Not worth the energy or the mental strain.

I was startled when my door opened and I saw Slade standing there, that one eye fixed onto my face with interest already as he entered. I sat up like a bolt of lightning, thoughts going through my head—_what does he want? What did I do wrong now? Can I just die right now, please? Can he skip the dialogue and just hit me right away so we can get it over with?—_at a dizzying speed. But I made myself remain calm, restraining my fists from clenching and my eyes from narrowing, getting up and taking a fighting stance, etc—because even though I wasn't tired I was exhausted and wanted to get over whatever he wanted done, and I knew being passive would make it go faster. Not as much dialogue exchange. That was good. Just that many fewer opportunities for me to say something dumb.

"Awake again, Robin?" he said, walking over to my bed so he was only a few feet away. His arms, typical of him, where clutched behind his back.

"I can't sleep," I said simply, in keeping with my theme of passiveness, though the real, witty Robin would have said something like—_no shit, Sherlock. I would have probably needed a textbook to tell me that. _"I'm not _trying _to stay awake."

"I know, Robin," he said, going over to the hanger where my suit was kept and removing it, coming over to me and handing it to me. "So there's really no purpose to lie there."

I looked at him incredulously, surprised and instantly confused. "You mean…"

"I know you like the night, Robin. You are fixated with it. And I understand that. I also live in darkness—I live _for _darkness. And after observing your behavior more closely since our agreement, I can see that that is when you are at your best. I won't strive to change that about you."

"So you mean…?"

"Get up and get dressed, apprentice. You'll sleep tomorrow morning. Tonight we have much to do." His eye was gleaming at me in a way that made my stomach lurch, instinctively.

I was opening my mouth to question him, any one of the thousand questions that were spinning around in my head in that moment. But he held up his hand to silence me, and said curtly, "Five minutes, Robin," before walking out, leaving me in silence.

It took a minute, but I got up, dressed, and left the room to meet him in front of the screens picturing the insides of my friends…


	2. The Death Machine

That night really amazed me—and when I say really amazed me I mean _really _amazed me. Tonight I would break every rule I'd ever inscribed into the framework of my mind dictating what was good and what couldn't be done—what, if I did, would make me the type of person I'd always resented and hated but had pity for at the same time. And constantly throughout the night, I reflected upon how I looked in that moment, like the old Robin who looked upon criminals with disdain like he was better than them; but now, I think more than ever, I understand that not everyone does what they do for pleasure. All at once I felt naïve, stupid, inconsiderate, condescendingly egotistical, really removed—but more than anything I felt really uprooted, and didn't understand if I'd had been doing anything right throughout my whole life of crime fighting. The line between good and bad was swiftly blurring and becoming a whole, grey foggy thing which was completely undistinguishable, and the more I thought about it the more I confused myself. Because the real question begged an answer which I couldn't give it. That was—what _was _right and what was wrong?

I spent that night trying to silence the thoughts and go about the work mindlessly like one of Slade's robots. I knew it would be easier not to think about it; not to realize how much what Slade and I were doing resembled chases I'd given criminals as the cops sped after us. It was easier not to comprehend the idea that I had become exactly the thing I had sworn to my father I'd never be so many years ago. And it was easier not to argue with myself about it when I knew that I would never be able to give myself clear answers, or any resolve which would comfort me because I knew there was really no comfort to be had, not in my thoughts. And then something else would come up that would be thrown into my mind and vie for my attention with the other thoughts—throughout the night, it became easier to turn my attention to Slade—and really to Slade alone—than to think about my situation, as if I could only get some kind of fake validation from him, but validation none the less; and when it was all said and done, I really started to hate myself for it. It was becoming clear how really weak I must be if it was easier to obey my arch-nemesis than to at least begin to speculate about what was right and wrong and how it could be fixed. But that smart section of my mind would continue to repeat, to argue back—_but there's no way it can be fixed…you're just doing what you have to…why think about when all it will do is upset you?_

Ultimately, for the majority of the night, I made myself obey this voice…obey _Slade_. For the most part, I pushed back any speculative thoughts and made myself live in the moment, which I wouldn't allow myself to hate (or enjoy). I wouldn't think about it, and would go about it as emotionlessly as possible. I turned everything outwards, in itself unfortunate but still easier than to contemplate.

Leaving his hide-out, we walked through a serious of long, dark tunnels lit only by little dim lights on the walls, which I noticed were cement. It wasn't the way I'd come when I had got that device from Cinderblock, stupidly following it to my doom, but I was trying to use my instincts to decide where we were within the city—trying to use everything I knew about the construction from every map I'd ever studied, but I was disoriented and ultimately couldn't gain my bearing as to where these tunnels were. But then, really, I hadn't expected that Slade would have had his secret base laid out for everyone in the city to look at. I wondered vaguely as we walked if he was trying to confuse me—trying to ensure that I wouldn't figure out how we got to wherever we were going so I wouldn't go there again. But then again I had no idea where we were going, and frankly it made no sense that he'd try to keep me from knowing where the real world was, when I'd already left the hideout on any of my missions. Just not this way.

"Where are we?" I asked after I'd given up trying to pinpoint a location with no map, no compass, no indicating signs, nothing, even though I didn't expect he'd tell me. More than anything, it was something to break the silence, which was unnerving, creeping upon me so steadily that I was sure any minute something would jump up from behind me and shriek in my ear like a horror movie. If Slade had not been there, I might have had a conversation with myself.

He glanced back easily but didn't stop walking. "It's not anything crucial that you know, Robin. Relax. I'm not taking you to your death."

"Well, just humor me then," I said, fixing my gaze on that one eye of his, gleaming kind of creepily in the low light—but then when _wasn't_ it gleaming creepily? "At least tell me where we're going."

"Why so concerned, Robin? Are you worried of what will be waiting for you at the end of this hallway?"

"No," I said, at first lying because I was concerned, but then answering truthfully, because I wasn't worried what was waiting for me, not really. It would be the city that should be frightened if they knew what was coming their way. "Not for me, no, I'm not worried. I don't think you're bringing me to my death either. Someone else's maybe."

"We'll see—sometimes things come up and things need to be done," he said, paused, then added, "But I won't deny you that I don't have any intention to kill you. You know who dies if you're disobedient."

Oh, I did—all too well. And I was praying that tonight I wouldn't be faced with any decisions or tasks concerning those people so that I didn't have too much a chance to fumble and upset him, like playing roulette with someone else's life, and you were hoping for a good night, a good roll. But in the back of my mind I had a good idea that tonight's _activities _would definitely include the Titans, considering everything he had me do was illegal, and, especially with Slade with me this time, would be painful and trying. I wasn't looking forward to it.

"Speaking of which," he said, looking back at me just as we came to a metal door at the end of the hallway. "I thought I should remind you that you are not to say a word to them should we encounter them tonight, which we undoubtedly will. Now that they know of your situation it is crucial that you distance yourself from them—after all, there's no reason to tease them by making them think you're still their friend. So not a word, and if you say anything I won't hesitate to…"

"I know," I snapped, looking at him with my eyes fixed into an irritated glare. "You've told me over and over what you'll do if I don't do everything you say."

The gleaming eye narrowed. "Now, Robin, what did I say about that tone? From your behavior, you wouldn't know I'd ever mentioned such a thing."

"All I said was…"

"Don't argue with me, Robin."

I looked down at my shoes, actually beginning to wish I was back in bed, laying in the darkness with nothing to do. It would have been better and less tiring than this—no matter how much I liked being out at night. Because I didn't like being out with Slade and I didn't like answering to him. And even though it would have just been easier, less draining, to say _yes master_ and follow him mindlessly wherever he was taking me, I still wanted to protest; but now that I think about I don't think this decision was actually that calculated—more than anything, it was instinctive and I don't think I was really considering much of what I said. "I just wanted to know where we're going."

"Well you must learn patience, Robin. Don't you trust that I have something _thrilling _planned for you?"

"Oh, believe me, yes, I do. I really do trust you there," I breathed out, shaking my head gently. We hadn't even left and I was already worn out.

His eye narrowed again. "Well, then, why don't you just follow me and keep those questions to yourself?"

I watched him type a code into the key pad and didn't even try to see what it was, knowing that even if I had had the code it wouldn't have helped me, because not only would I be hesitant to use it but because he held the real key, the fact that if I did anything he didn't want he'd kill my friends. Besides, even if I did have the key, what could I do with it? It just seemed like a pointless endeavor and I wasn't up for trying it.

When the door slid open I looked up—and it made a little more sense more. Where we were was a parking garage, one that was huge and empty, void of any other vehicles but one in the middle. Like any other parking garage it had a big, open spaces between each level, and I could see out. Amazingly—no city. It was the sandy desert several miles outside the city where I'd heard rumors for years was home to villain's hideouts and arsenals, storage vaults for weapons and secret clubs for the criminals to gather after hours and discuss new evil plans, gamble, and drink. I had been out here twice—both following after criminals as they ran here to try to gain shelter here thinking the Titans wouldn't follow them for fear of the criminals in those parts, but we saw no structures and had spent frankly very little time looking for them, stupidly I guess.

So those tunnels, from Slade's hideout led to this parking garage? I guess it made sense, because the tunnels were long, heading the right direction away from the city, and we had gone up a flight of stairs at some point to make it above ground; but what I didn't understand was why. Why—why a parking garage in the desert, rather than in his lair back in the city, and why, if here, so out in the open? It seemed so unlike Slade, so really, really careless, because anyone could have seen it…but then again, we hadn't…

He walked inside in the direction of the one vehicle in the garage, and my eyes fixed here. Immediately I thought of Cyborg, how right now if he'd been here with me he'd be drooling and feeling the car down like a pretty girl—and I kind of wanted to, too, because this thing was amazing. Sleek, in one word, a beautiful silver car, a smaller, more compact thing with a retractable roof, like a Scorpion. The minute I saw it I knew it would go fast; it was built like a racecar, with two seats leaned far back to make it more aerodynamic, and wheels that I knew would glide over the pavement. It reminded me of the car my father drove when we fought crime together—almost exactly the same with sleek wheel covers and doors that I knew would swing upwards instead of out, except for this thing had been tricked out with more technology than I think my dad had had in total, with so many buttons it looked like a Christmas tree, plus its paintjob of choice, making it instantly recognizable as Slade's car. On the front of it there was his insignia as the hood ornament, with his favorite colors for the paint job—black, grey, orange. On the license plate—which, frankly I was impressed he even had—spelled out in capital letters "SWKEVORKIAN."

For a moment, I could only stand there, my mouth hanging open, and he turned to me, his eye, again, possessing that disturbing gleam even more than ever in this weird, unnaturally bright white light of the parking garage. The eye was narrow, glaring, and looking into it was like looking into the eyes of some god and his opposite, the devil, all at the same time—that control and that all-seeing quality coupled with a fierce, outgoing, salacious evil.

"Do you like it, Robin? I know you have a great appreciation for nice vehicles—getaway cars. This is my special car. I built it."

That was when I realized—this car wasn't a Scorpion like my father had had. We didn't have a manufacturer for those in this city, that and a lot of other cars. This was a Kevorkian—the car that popped up from an independent seller in our city and supposedly made millions selling its cars. Of course, the typical car was nothing like this—without the special features, the swinging doors, the paint, the hood ornament, the sparkling silver wheel covers, and of course without all the buttons and technology. Its roof retracted and it was cheap, which was why the majority of the city owned one. Even I had driven one at one point.

"…how did you change the Kevorkian like this? You must have had to tear it apart."

I heard him chuckle softly beneath his mask, and again, unsurprisingly, the eye was gleaming, knowingly. "You've heard of my cars then, Robin?"

It took me a second to answer. "_Your _cars?"

"Oh, yes. I made millions of dollars, Robin, all to fund my extensive technology; any of my residences, my storage facilities such as this one, and my personal favorite—my death machine. Do you like it?"

It was then that I think I first really had an understanding of how much control Slade actually had.

"You've had some experience driving, haven't you, Robin?"

I could tell where he was going with this the minute it came out of his mouth. "Look, if you're going to ask me to drive that _thing…_no thanks."

He looked at me with a glimmer of amusement in his eye. "What are you afraid of, Robin? That you'll do something wrong? Unlikely. You're a smart boy."

"I'm not going to drive your…_death machine,_" I said, eyeing him with a sneer on my face, my lip turned up like I was smelling something bad.

"Come now, Robin. If you're going to be my apprentice then you're going to have to drive it—and if you're not wanting to be seen in it, then you're going to have to overcome that, won't you? Your friends' lives depend on it."

I _didn't _want to be seen in the death machine, no. Not the getaway car that undoubtedly would be traveling at two hundred miles an hour with some deeply cherished loot as cops sped after us through a crowded city (and I was very spot on when I thought about this, because that is what would happen). But again, because I knew there was really no way to answer my questions and to solve my problems, I made myself stop thinking about it. If Slade wanted me to drive the Kevorkian to a bank and back, with cops on our tail, the _Titans _on our tail, I would.

So without any protest, I got into the car, whose doors were already rose and waiting for the passenger to enter. The seats were soft leather and immediately conformed to my body—and amazingly, the seat actually adjusted so that I would be positioned correctly when I drove. I let out a little cry of surprise, earring a laugh from Slade, who still lingered over me on the driver's side.

"Neat, isn't it, Robin?"

Suddenly, he reached over across my body, over to a small keypad by the wheel. He punched in another code, which I didn't try to memorize, and a small screen above the keypad lighted up green. I realized it was a fingerprint ID-scanner when he took my right hand in his and pushed the thumb on that hand against it. My finger was scanned, and then there was a beeping that signified I'd gained entrance, and suddenly—the Kevorkian's lights, that luxury kind of green and yellow in cars, came on and in an instant the engine was roaring, buzzing, ready to be put into drive.

I couldn't help but mumble, almost mesmerized, "That's so freaking cool."

The eye, naturally, gleamed again, amusement, and also with something that I would spend much time analyzing later when I had come out of my cowardice and into terms with my life and what it meant now, but would at that present moment push off as nothing and forcefully pay more attention to the tricked-out ride (K-baby, as Cyborg called the classic, but if he could have seen this _baby_…) –what that was, was the same thing I had seen the day I had been talking to him after waking up from the pushup incident. That doting, indulgence, affection…

"I'm glad you think so. Now, I know you've driven a classic before, and it's very similar. Should we need any of the…_special features_, I will activate them for you. So drive as normal, and don't be alarmed should anything happen."

"What will happen?" I said, eyeing him suspiciously, the immediate appeal of the car diminishing slightly as I thought about what he had said.

He looked at me, that eye narrowed and giving me the impression instantly that he was smiling beneath his mask. "Don't worry, Robin. Just go with it. I'm confident you will enjoy this car."

"Okay," I said skeptically, looking at the dashboard, the lights reminding me of a city at night. It was daunting, but I figured if there was one time to listen to Slade, it was now when my own life was genuinely at risk—my own actions genuinely dependent on something. So I concentrated on what I knew: the acceleration, the wheel, and, most importantly, the brake.

"That's my boy," he said as he walked around the car and got into the passenger seat. When he was situated, he pressed a button and all at once the doors closed and the roof shifted back so that it became completely open.

I looked around about the parking garage, finding the exit, preparing to step on the peddle, then realizing I had no idea where we were going to go. "Where do you want me to drive to?"

The eye, again, narrowed, gleamed, looking at me intently. Purposefully and softly he said, "Tonight we have much to do, Robin. Some of it, you won't mind. Some, you will."

I didn't want to know, not really—but of course I had to ask. "What does that involve?"

He paused, seemingly in thought, then his face became hard and angry, the eye narrowed in a way that wasn't menacing but purely infuriated. I thought he was mad at me and was preparing to be thrown from the car, but he said, with an unnerving calmness about his voice, "Your thermal blaster—it's very important that you have it. That little friend of yours—that little caped bitch destroyed it. She gathered the pieces to analyze them, and tonight we're going to get them back."

My thoughts were creeping back in, and I remember, kind of vaguely, begging to him, still not sure exactly what I said. Something like—_please, I don't need, please, I don't want to get it back, I didn't like it, we can steal something else, please…_etc, and more desperate pleas drug about by the idea of facing my friends again—and now, being even more pressured to obey Slade, not being able to talk to them, pretending I didn't care about them anymore. It was at that moment that I really wished I was back in my room, wished I was sleeping, even—anything but this. But of course, it was all pointless, and my sensibleness was butting back in, saying—_stop it Robin, there's nothing you can do, Slade will make you do this no matter what, just do it, don't think about it, don't argue, don't hurt yourself—_and surprisingly, Slade was saying something similar to me.

"Robin, you don't need friends anymore. You will see that in time the only one you need is me. But for now I suggest that you learn to do what you are told without giving it too much thought to spare yourself this pointless pain." If I would have looked, I would have seen that his eye was uncharacteristically soft.

"Then why even make me do it?" I had said, getting worked up again and feeling like I was barely holding back a tantrum, which always replaced tears, something I had learned not to spare my body the release of having, because I believed it showed weakness. I was almost there, the dam holding back my tears almost breaking as I thought of myself breaking into Titan Tower with Slade and stealing something from them so that I could use it against them at a later time.

The eye was still soft. "Robin, hush. Don't let yourself get upset over this. It's not worth the pain. I do this not because I enjoy seeing you in pain—which I do not, honestly—but because you need to learn that you don't need them. They are not your friends anymore. And because they have interfered with me, that makes them your enemy. I do not take kindly to having things that I have labored over destroyed callously."

"She just didn't want to be fired at anymore," I said weakly, though of course, I wouldn't be protesting much longer. In fact, I couldn't protest any longer, because with each word that left my mouth I felt futility crippling my mind even further and making me want to curl into a ball and die due to the helplessness. It would be easier just to do as I was told—not to think about—to be good and obey. I knew that. So why was it so hard for me to keep my mouth shut and to make myself shut out reality, at least for tonight? Why was I making it a point to chip away at my sanity? Did I have any regard for my mental health?

His eyes narrowed again, I guessed at the thought of Raven. "And neither should you. The blaster was your defense and she took it away from you. That is belligerent and disrespectful, and you need to realize that. Who is she to dictate how you can and can't act? Even if this wasn't your choice—because what if it _was?_"

I was fixating my thoughts on the Kevorkian's wheel, my eyes glaring down at it, making myself notice each curve and the sewing of the luxury leather. I traced the pattern with my eyes and thought about it, because I didn't want to think about the Titans—not in the least bit, and I didn't want to be lectured by Slade about how I should think. My hands were gripping that wheel with a good deal of force as I hissed out between clenched teeth, not thinking about it as a chapter of my history but more as a landmark, a place on the map, "You want me to drive to the Tower then?"

"I can see you need some time first, or you will be too emotional. We'll go downtown to the strip-club on the Southside. The owner has taken a great interest in the death machine and tried to steal schematics for it. I'm sure all to sell the cars on the black market to criminal hopefuls. And you understand how I don't like my labor being abused."

"Yes," I said simply, more calm now, the steering wheel's shape burned into my eyes—but that was okay.

"You can have a drink once he's been dealt with."

"Fine," I said emotionlessly, even though I didn't drink, never had, and stepped onto the gas pedal.

Once I left that parking garage, I would never feel the same way about myself again.

Or about Slade.


	3. The First Real Red Light

So, here's where I think I really became that thing I hated—that type of person I resented because almost every night I ended up having to give chase to them and return whatever it was they had stolen, had to throw them in jail—the usual. And, let me clarify—I'm not saying I became a criminal because I was speeding down the streets of the city at over a hundred miles an hour—two hundred miles, actually, I think it was. But I think I really became a criminal the minute I started enjoying it.

I know that sounds crazy—especially considering the fact that I was going to force myself to shut everything out, and to just do as I was told without thinking too much about it; but then I realized that maybe, in this situation, that was the problem. Now that I think about it, the fact that I _wasn't _thinking about it allowed me to do what any other criminal did—because I was allowing the endorphins and adrenalin, whatever, take hold of my body and make me do crazy shit just to encourage it to keep giving me that feeling. And now that I reflect on it, I understand criminals more than I think I have ever in the history of my career—understand that there's so many things that drive them to do what they do. Just because up until now I hadn't been motivated didn't mean that I was any better than them, and I admitted that to myself with remorsefulness, again wondering if there were other things I had been doing wrongly, living life falsely and with a wrongly enhanced sense of self. And now I'm wondering what would have been the right thing to do—to think hopelessly and painfully about what I was doing, or to just do it and go with the feelings it gave me. In the end, I don't actually think there's a set-in-stone answer, but ultimately I ended up choosing the second, though who could really blame me? Give into this fast car or think about how hopeless my life was, had always been? Choosing the car was like a drug addict choosing drugs rather than facing the reality of their life—but that was okay, at least for tonight, that was okay. At least for tonight, to preserve my sanity, I'd enjoy this car.

I mean, I'd _really _enjoy this car.

Maybe it had been a secret dream of mine—to go speeding through the streets of the city at four times the posted speed limit, barely scraping through alleyways or the narrow streets, taking out several mailboxes and street signs, running red lights, all at Slade's command. But maybe it _had _been a dream of mine—to play the role of the criminal for once, to not have to worry about the destruction or the consequences of not catching that person, not having to worry about the mental strain and pain it would cause a dedicated person like myself. Maybe I liked that for tonight, someone else would be doing that for me, and maybe I liked the idea that the only thing I had to lose was what I wanted to gain when there was no chance that the two of us would end up in jail tonight, considering he knew a thing or two about evading the police—and so did I…

And here's something I wouldn't touch on, not for a while, at least: what if I liked the idea of being the bad guy for once, that rebellious young punk dressed in gunmetal who drove a fast car with a pimp-like mentor in the seat next to him at 220 mph? Wasn't that somehow—just somehow, to my inner excitement and yearning for something more than what I had—really fulfilling? But again, that didn't come up for a long time, and even when it did I never really decided how I should feel about it, considering that each time I reflected on it I would continuously find my mind playing games with me and twisting things around so that I wouldn't ever really be able to figure out what was what. I don't know if I ever will, not even if I really, fully come to terms with my life now. Because in the end, what sane, conscious person wants to ask themselves—are you actually a bad guy after all?

No, it was easier just to focus on the car—a lot easier, because after all how could you _really _think about anything else when you were speeding down city streets at four times the speed limit with your heart beating about twice that, and those of the poor pedestrians probably beating six times faster?

I think when we initially left the parking garage and drove into the dark desert, lighted only by the full moon which was glowing an eerie yellow, it was midnight or one in the morning. In the city there would still be many people awake and working, because that was the type of city we lived in, where people rarely slept and it was more often than not busier than it was in the daytime, when it often felt like a ghost town. And that would stay the same tonight, until we entered the part of the city where Slade's _man _was, the little run-down strip club where the Titans and I might have at one point busted a drug deal or intercepted a criminal (no, I wouldn't think about that irony, either). That place was as cold and lonely and empty, unjustifiable and trying, because thoughts weren't easily ignored here, as Slade's freaky underground hideout. In places like these where there was no sounds and where you could hear the wind, weren't met with the sound of cars and lights, the things of the city, it was too easy to be drawn back to those places you didn't want to be. I would have said the desert now was like this, but it wasn't, because you could say I was still pretty transfixed by the damn car.

The SWK was a smooth car—and when I say smooth, I mean really smooth. Nothing like any other car I'd ever driven in my entire life; not like my cherished bike, any of Cyborg's specially engineered vehicles, certainly nothing like the typical model I was used to when something nicer wasn't available. That was, I thought when I stepped on the gas I would need a minute to adjust—that it would lurch or that the wheels would stall because I couldn't get the hang of the steering wheel. But it was the craziest thing because the minute I stepped on the gas—the _second_, I was just easily gliding out of the parking garage without any hiccups, without thinking about it even remotely. Like the car had been built for _me_, and maybe it had. And in that respect it reminded me of the suit I wore now, comfortable and fitting perfectly to my body. In this case, too, like he had known how to model the car so that it would feel right for me. And frankly, I didn't doubt it. Knowing him, and considering this latest damning plan, I wouldn't be surprised if he'd known he was going to blackmail me like this when he built the car—known I'd be driving him around so he could go traumatize some poor stupid club owner and then make me break into Titan's tower with him so he could steal back the thermal blaster—which, spoilers, _of course_ couldn't happen without a fight.

Bitterly, I would answer these thoughts later with—_at least you were doing it in style. In a car perfect for you._

_If only it didn't have the burning S._

I must have looked surprised as the car slid easily forward and towards the exit, like I hadn't expected it—and I hadn't—because Slade chuckled.

"Surprised, Robin? Didn't think you'd like it?" Again as he was looking at me slyly I was sure he was probably smiling beneath his mask.

For the first time, I think, even after all of the encounters we'd had, out of the blue, I began to beg the question silently that I must have wondered all along but had never actually _asked _myself: _what _does _Slade look like beneath there?_

But I quickly pushed the question aside, though it wasn't one I wasn't too worried about disregarding completely. I definitely deserved considering, especially when I realized that I probably hadn't actually given it any previous to this situation. But in that moment it was so random that it actually didn't feel _right_, and what was more I didn't feel relevant. I couldn't see the point in that moment to trying to figure out who had haunted the majority of my life as Robin like a phantom, because realistically I knew that trying wouldn't get me anywhere—wouldn't help me to get out of what I was about to do, even if I wanted to…So I wouldn't. Again, I was tired tonight, fatigued, and even though it wasn't like me to take the easy way out and not to think things through, that was that night—but then again, what even _was_ like me anymore?

"No," I said after a minute. "I didn't…you really did save the best for yourself. Naturally, I guess?"

_Really, Robin_, I heard myself saying, that smart, logical part of me that was always there and always bothering the persistent part of me, the loyal part, the part true to myself. _Are you really trying to start a fight? _Not consciously, no, I would answer, tell myself. But then, maybe I was. Was I still trying to preserve some part of myself tonight since I wouldn't consider and think? Maybe it wasn't that deep, maybe; maybe it was still natural and no matter how tired I was, the banter never really stopped coming out of my mouth—but maybe not. Like Slade, I did a lot of things in calculation, whether I actually knew it or not. My words were not excepted from this. In that moment I wanted nothing more than to fight so that I could think even less, even if that was stupid and so unlike the smart part of me, and even if I had a really hard time convincing that part of a lie fabricated for it.

I didn't seem I'd get that fight, not now. "Of course. For myself, the best. And for you also, Robin. I spared no expense on your suit—have I told you how much better you look in this than in that old thing you used to wear?"

Maybe not the way I planned—but if he was game, and it took my mind off everything, then okay.

"Shut the fuck up, dude."

Alright, so here's where maybe this fighting thing was a bad idea because I actually managed to confuse myself even further. Shut the fuck up, _dude_? Where had _that_ come from? It sounded like something I would have said to Beast Boy or Cyborg, Raven maybe—as in, when they said something annoying but which wasn't actually annoying but just playful, saying back in an equally playful manner, _shut the fuck up, dude. _You'd bark that out to friends who would understand it, jokingly; so here's one more thing to add to my list of things to consider when I grow some balls—since when would I say something like that to Slade in the way I'd meant it? Not in complete anger but just annoyance?

Even if I had wanted to consider this, I had no time before he slapped me, apparently not understanding the humor in this like my friends would have (well, except Starfire because she would be horrified that I'd used a word Beast Boy told her was "bad"). It wasn't necessarily a hard slap, but it was enough to make my head turn to the side and to leave a red mark, though would quickly fade still stung. It didn't necessarily catch me off guard, either, because I should have expected that if I said something like that to Slade that he would punish me, but the problem was I really hadn't expected myself to say something like that in first place—obviously not the "dude" part, but not the part about him shutting up, either, which naturally didn't seem like a good idea, especially when I began to consider that Slade didn't really like the word "fuck" when used in context with him doing something, an order given to him; after all I should have remembered right on the spot being flung into the wall when I told him to get out of the room when he'd come in to give me clothes.

So in essence, Starfire was probably right—fuck _is_ a bad word.

"Don't ruin my mood, Robin. If you make me angry, tonight will be all that much harder for you, understand?"

"Yes," I said solemnly, deciding just to shut up for a few minutes and try to forget about everything.

"Robin, you've skirted around addressing me since I told me what you were to call me."

I had, but wasn't that to be expected? "Yes, _master_." The word tasted salty, greasy, like something you shouldn't be eating. And coming up it tasted like throwing up some such foods.

"Good boy. See, it's not so hard to please me, is it?"

Oh, geez—did he want me to say something stupid? Knowing Slade, yes, probably. But I wouldn't give him that satisfaction. "No, master."

"Good boy. Now keep driving. We have much to do."

I did. Again the car slid forward without the slightest hint of resistance as we left the parking garage, and even as the terrain changed, from smooth and paved to sandy and haphazard, like it had just been carved out of the earth, the car's smoothness never faltered. An automatic shift in gear, maybe? Something fancy, something like the device that had accommodated my body to the seat to allow for the best driving and access to everything. This car _was _personalized, furthering my belief that Slade had probably engineered this car for more than one person, namely, he and myself. What else could explain that fingerprint thing—clear proof that he'd already had my signature programmed into the car? And I didn't doubt this car was doing what I wanted it to because I was the one in control—even though I couldn't even begin to grasp the majority of the technology that went into that. Cyborg would have been stumped, even, so there was really no point in trying to think about it (that logical Robin again).

So I just…went with it.

Went with it, meaning unconsciously I had slammed my foot down onto the gas and was speeding through the desert at what would have seemed to be top speed for any other car but what was actually half of the SWK's, which could only be accessed with one of the special switches that was closest to Slade—and of course, which that night would not go untouched. Dust blew back behind us and my hair was hanging onto my head for dear life, pulled back so far that you could have probably made out the majority of my face hadn't it been for the mask. If I'd still had my cape, it would have strangled me and then ripped off my neck—probably one of the reasons most villains didn't wear capes, because they were always in fast cars (and apparently I looked much better without one). And the sound of it—the hum of the car, a hum which rose into a growl, like a loud buzzing cutting through the night—was enough to deafen immediately. Immediately, I was reminded of a race car, not the kind that you'd drive when you were at an amusement park, but one in a real race, except for a normal race-car driver, the flesh would have probably been burned off the face by the end.

Here's another thing—went with it, meant that my lips were beginning to pull up into a smile. Again, I actually did not notice until Slade mentioned it, and again would not allow myself to think about it. It was a natural reaction and I didn't care, brushing it off easily and immediately as the thrill of being in a fast car—a high that was as innocent as kissing someone you really liked. Something that only naturally made your heart race. Nothing more. I _didn't like_ the idea of what I was doing, did I?

"A natural smile," he mused softly, and even over the roar of the engine slicing the silence of the night like sharp knife through butter, I could hear him, clearly. His eye was glinting in the low light cast by the moon and again the question flashed briefly, not for the last time in the coming days, who Slade was beneath the dreaded and haunting mask, and image always burned into my dreams.

I'd learn, in time, almost everything about Slade.

"Something I don't think I've seen personally. Only when I watch you."

"I've never been in a car this fast," I yelled back to him, because I didn't want to recognize the natural smile or give thought to what he had just said, which would have creeped me out thoroughly if I had.

"I know you haven't, Robin. You're right to just let yourself enjoy it. There's nothing more satisfying than driving a fast car with intent in mind."

"Um, so, why don't you keep this car in the city? Why all the way out here?" I said, again, evasively. Even though I had no problem hearing him I was still screaming over the roar of the engines just to hear myself think, let alone speak. Maybe I was simply trying to speak so I didn't lose myself in the sound, the deafening and drowning, nearly suffocating sound of the car.

Obviously, he seemed to sense it. His finger went out and flipped a switch on the dash nonchalantly without taking the eye off of me. The sound immediately was gone. I took my eyes and the rest of my mind off driving to turn and look at him with my mouth hanging open.

"Eyes on the road, Robin," he said sternly. "If you crash this car then I think I'll just have to kill you." I couldn't tell whether or not he was kidding. Probably, because killing me didn't seem really logical, but then again, in the coming days I would learn just how much he liked that car…

Either way I looked back to the road but didn't really shut my mouth, still amazed. You could actually silence the_ engine_? How the hell was that done? I could now actually hear the wind that was the only natural sound, the only relevance to the world, the only thing making this place feel living; even the sound of the sand being thrown up from the tires, the only other sound, sounded inhuman, like the screech of a ghost. And I was so stunned by everything that I was learning and experiencing tonight that I could hardly speak. My foot gradually continued to press the peddle down further, and we were going faster, without much thought from me.

"Calm down, Robin. I can see you're not very experienced with these things. You'd think that mechanic friend of yours would have taught you something—or perhaps he has, I wouldn't be surprised if like you he knows very little about technology. Like the others he's foolish and conceited and thinks he's smarter than he actually is. But no matter. In time I'll teach you to build things as I grew up doing," Slade said easily, regarding at me with that gleaming, all-knowing and –seeing eye.

But in all honesty I didn't really care what he was saying—especially because I was still thinking about the car and wondering distantly what other features it had, thinking—if it can do things like it's done then what _else_ can it do? I was growing more worried but I won't lie that I was impressed, and curious. I'd never rode in car with so much horsepower but which could be completely silent all at the same time.

"So if you can make it silent, why have the noise at all?" I said slowly, trying to keep my eyes on the road so I didn't have to look at him and have him see my wide eyes and didn't have to face his own, which would dig deep into my soul with untold leagues of power—a prying eye, one that, for all I knew, could be equally as powerful as Raven's, or more so.

Plainly there was more to this guy than face value, and even on the deepest level I was beginning to explore. Sometimes, and in that moment it was one of those times, I felt like he could read my mind.

"I like the sound, Robin. That sound—it's a fearful sound, a powerful sound, an intense sound. As you might have realized it makes the heart race—invigorating like a drug. You cannot yet imagine the thrill of speeding through a city crowded with people with that sound following you like floods after a hurricane. You will soon—you'll see the beauty in that soon. You'll learn to like it.

But of course there are always times when the sound is impractical. When I follow your little group, it's not always desirable to alert you from miles away."

"You're really sneaky," I said bitterly. The city was coming into view—bright, neon lights, a fantastic contrast to the desert. Like some odd futuristic and warm, welcoming utopia, it was glowing. I was reminded of what I had been asking over the engine's noise. "So why out here then, if you can make the car quiet?"

"You Titans never come here. I don't doubt you would, if needed, but I see you very rarely. And there's not exactly a place to put a car of such value in a city of thieves, like the fool you and I are going to deal with. Are you excited, Robin?"

"What, to go hit up some poor stupid guy?" I said, out of the corner of my eye, so as not to take my gaze off the road, looking at him incredulously. And suddenly one thought couldn't be pushed to the back of my mind any longer, and I was instantaneously wanting out of what we were about to do, maybe realizing for the first time that tonight I would probably be made to kill someone, something I'd sworn to my father never to do. And suddenly I found myself begging him, like I did when it came to the idea of robbing Titan's tower, but more fiercely, because I knew that while the Titans could defend themselves pretty well some lame little strip-club owner would be mincemeat in the hands of Slade and I, that we didn't do this. Crazily, almost begging Slade that we actually go to the tower and do what we needed to there rather than torment some helpless moron who'd thought it was remotely smart or profitably to cross Slade.

"Come on, why is he even worth your time?" I wanted to make it sound as though I was glorifying him—make him feel like he didn't need to "deal with" this guy to _earn my respect. _Suddenly I wanted to manipulate him like he had me for so many years consecutively. I wanted to do something and get something out of it. Though it wasn't that conscious, and I don't know that I had really decided _what_, exactly, I actually wanted to gain from doing so, the night was already invigorating me on so many levels and the mixture of emotions was pushing me, strangely, to try something new. Like if a young kid starts hanging out with some bad teenagers; he feels really scared and really wrong, and really doesn't _want_ to drink beer with them or smoke cigarettes, but at the same time he's reeling with the idea that he could be part of them, thinking about how cool it will make him, how different it will be to inhale that smoke he's always smelled, and he's getting high off these feelings coming together and vying. So he ends up smoking, and then later on helps them rob a bank, or something. He's feeling totally uprooted and really fly at the same time, and he's acting on those feelings.

I guess what I mean is that, when it comes down to it the emotions I felt that night were melding together and by the time it was all other, I really didn't know _what _I wanted. And that only made one of us because Slade _did_, and I realized my new little tactic was not effective, like if the kid's heist had failed. And what was worse, I had just glorified him with nothing to show for it. Sooner or later, a thought flashed quickly in the forefront of my mind: _if you keep acting like you respect him you'll probably actually _start _respecting him. Won't it become habit?_

Another spoiler: it did.

"You're right, of course, Robin, he is not worth my time, and usually I wouldn't give these criminals a minute of it. But I think you'll enjoy this tonight; you can't see it now, but just like this car, it will surprise and invigorate you. You're more like me at heart than you know."

I might have said something—might have put up a protest like the young, loyal-to-my-father-and-myself Robin, or might have just simply agreed because if I didn't my brain would just explode and stain the inside of the SWK from being led into thinking and pondering and painfully considering once again. But I didn't get a chance. I didn't realize it but we'd merged onto the actual highway now, having apparently passed the only intersection, without a stoplight, that allowed one to get into the city if you were coming from a different road. People did not take the road we'd come from because they knew where it led, and travelers were directed to take one of the side routes and then to turn so as to avoid confrontation. Nobody went there, and the road, I'd notice later as Slade and I traveled down it more and more frequently, especially at that intersection, was cracked and broken down with old road signs from before the villains and the Hive that were so caked with dirt and cobwebs and bugs that you couldn't read it. That intersection served like the entrance to a nuclear power plant that had leaked and become abandoned.

Once you turned onto the traveled part of the highway from the side roads, then there were new traffic lights and a lot of traffic from then on out. Slade's road, as I would come to call it, was so old that it hadn't been fitted with one, not that one was needed. I would learn later that one of the reasons he had neglected to tell me when I had asked about the location of the parking garage that it was not just a parking garage, connected to the factory where the Kevorkians were made under Slade's command. In the heyday of the Kevorkian there were cars being produced and driven to a dealership in town all hours of the day, but soon demand went down because everyone already had one. There were garages and garages for these cars and still filled with them, but Slade often kept his baby, the SW, parked in the closest to his hideout. Since there were no cars here there was optimal space to do, say, _donuts_, some really nice, satisfying donuts, which I would end up doing later on, and which I will get to later. I would also learn that he had a home out here above the factory, one better than the hideout I would realize he used solely to keep himself in close proximity of me, and which we would visit less frequently as we spent more time at the factory. But again, I'll get to that later.

Point is we were coming to a stoplight, red in our direction. I barely noticed it until Slade spoke.

"Stoplight, Robin."

"Okay," I said, and eased on the brake.

"No no," he said quickly, his eye narrowing and gleaming. "Speed _up_."

I think it was at that moment I really realized just how much was actually being expected of me by Slade—

Because this wasn't just stealing anymore. The city was vulnerable to a terror they didn't know, and lives were at risk, really at risk.

Destruction, namely, was expected.

So was a body count tonight and in the coming days.

* * *

AN:

Hello everybody. Since this is my first TT story I thought I should introduce myself-and im not high and eating chow mien noodles now so i can do it (i ran out =(). First off, I hope people reading have liked the story. I know it's not a typical type story for these two and I hope the massive inner-dialogue of Robin doesn't turn people off. To counter that, I'm vowing to write frequently and come at you fools with long updates such as this one-this is actually a fucking record for me, considering I used to call seven-hundred words a decent chapter. I hope that if you like the story you'll stick with it and that if you have any feedback you post it. I'm not going to be a review whore and not update if you don't review (otherwise I wouldn't have updated, considering...) but I really do appreciate reviews because I like the feedback, especially considering that one of the reasons I write is to further my skills but to also please fans. So please leave some feedback. Also because I didn't have school today or tomorrow I'm thinking about updating tonight, let me know if that's something that you'd really like.

I just thought I'd say that in regards to TT itself it's been a long time since I've seen anything but apprentice. If there's discrepancies with the plot then I apologize, but you know, I have so much work I really don't have the time to go back and watch everything. Note also that I was watching this in the early turn of the century when it first came out, probably being like eight or nine. But I've been watching Batman since the 90's (i love the AS version) when i was a little kid. So these characters are really personal to me and have been part of my life. Especially DS and Robin. These two, god, they are my childhood.

I can always remember that episode with the slut Terra, getting mad, punching a wall. Mind you guys that when the Raven/Slade stuff came out i was probably too in touch with the real world to watch it so i didn't much, but fuck it. Robin and Slade are the original Batman and Robin...wait...

Anyways I don't know why i ranted about that. Probably so you all know how deep and soulful i am in my fanfiction (laughing). What the fuck, why is fanfiction not a word on the fucking fanfiction site? what the hell.

Anyway, I hope everyone enjoyed the chapters as much as I did writing them. Okay maybe that was what i was trying to say, that it's one of the reasons I'm writing this, for my own enjoyment and nostalgia. Yeah, that sounds better than me just wanted to feel like people actually care about me and want to hear my life stories...

So let me know what's going on. And where I can get some chow mien noodles, like right now. OH MY GOD.

~Thebitchwhonumberoneinthisbitchandshegonstaythere.


	4. Prelude to War and A Mechanic Named Will

Running a red light—something rarely done if you were in the field of work I was, at least with ill intention. I took the backstreets because the majority of the criminals we encountered fled that way, hoping to avoid typical police who were stationed along the highway. Sometimes to avoid accidents, innocents being hurt, we didn't drive after them but flew or rode with those who could fly—pretty much everyone but me and Cy, but I think he had been working on a jet-pack or something stupid like that) granted that it was a lot harder than just jumping on my motorcycle and speeding down the streets. But for the citizens, it was safer—considering the thousands of people who lived in the city. I didn't want to risk their lives if I didn't have to at the expense of some criminal who probably wasn't, in reality, worth our time (but there I am sounding superior again, because I know how that feels, to be the one in that position) and so I tried my best to avoid the streets at all.

They were all so vulnerable. The Titans knew that. So while trying to get the guy under control and under arrest we were also trying really hard not to harm anyone who was just unluckily happening to pass by. There was so little error and after that night I would learn just how much control, how much power, and how little it took for a fast car and a crazed driver under the influence of adrenalin to end a life. Considering this we had been lucky we'd had as little incidents as we'd had, especially considering that half the morons on the road weren't even right in the head against me. The more I think about it the more I feel scared to think just how much—how _much_—power criminals like Slade had actually had, how they'd had the upper hand at all times and had made the Titans and police work twice as hard just to accomplish what we needed to. But that was what they strived for, what made crime in a city like this appealing. It was easier to get away and harder to be booked.

Easier to be a villain, I guess I mean—was _thinking, _but not actually letting myself know I was thinking it (again, I was pretty determined to be brain-dead that night).

That first red light wasn't easy, though, because that red light stood as something in my mind which I actually couldn't ignore, no matter how much I wanted to. What I was about to do, run that fucking red light like there was no tomorrow, was the first thing that would identify me as a real _criminal_. I mean, yes, okay, I had stolen. I had stolen the thermal blaster and plenty of other fancy gadgets for Slade, but that hadn't hurt anyone. It was calculated and not meant to be reckless, but this was; this was slapdash and for-fun and to get a rise out of me. Slade wanted me to delve into his world and stealing shit just wouldn't do that, not completely. It wouldn't give me the thrill this would; the thrill of knowing so many lives were at risk and that I possessed all the control in the world when I got behind the wheel of the SWK. When _I_ drove the car I shouldn't have had to worry about the death toll, the fallout, the accidents, and I wouldn't have to worry about the damage—all I had to worry about was not getting caught. If I ran over some little kid playing in the street then the Titans could deal with that, _right_? Well that was what Slade wanted me to think—to think like him. He wanted me to see the beauty of it.

The beauty of being a criminal. The freeness. The unbinding nature.

_I could do whatever I wanted. I could have the world without condition. _

"Name it, Robin," Slade had said easily on one of the first nights I'd been forced to stay with him. "Whatever you want—anything, you can have it. That's the beauty in this, you see."

"Beauty?" I remember saying, looking at him incredulously. To me this idea was offensive, a clear slap in the face, but more than anything it was ironic. "I don't really see any beauty in taking things from other people and making them unhappy. I don't do that."

The eye, typically, gleamed, narrow, all knowing, conspicuous yet somehow totally unreadable at the same time. "Well, Robin. I'd like to offer you something to consider, though I know you won't be open with me about it, but to consider to yourself honestly: You and I both know how selfless you are. You're such a good boy, Robin—a little angel, frankly, more than any of your so-called friends, who you'd do anything to make happy, wouldn't you? You offer laughter to those two morons even when they make you want to tear your hair out. You put up with that little bitch's pouting and mood-swings. And you painfully put up a nice little façade for the alien girl you love so much even when she's stepped on your heart and crushed it to little pieces." For effect, Slade raised his hand and fisted it dramatically as if to implicate his words.

I wasn't buying into it, and I got defensive at the mention of Starfire especially. "Shut up, Slade," I had hissed, drifting into fighting stance. "You have no idea what our relationship is like so stop pretending like you do."

Sitting in his favorite chair before me, he looked up at me, totally relaxed, not at all threatened by my words. The eye let on amusement more than anything, but it still narrowed. "Ah, here's my little angel again, defending his girl even though he knows she's just bound to crush his heart yet again with her little boots. Tell me Robin, consider this for me: how much does this hurt _you_? How much are _you _made happy by what you do for them? What do _you _get out of this—how about this right here? What have you gotten out of serving me, and, consider, what have your friends gotten?"

Suddenly, abruptly, he stood up, and I saw immediately that he wasn't relaxed anymore, or amused—he was fuming. His eye burned with red rage and his fists were shaking. I remember staggering back, caught off guard and probably really fearful in that one moment of what—what _really_—lie beneath the metal suit—what _soul._

"_NOTHING! _When will reality kick _in_, Robin?! How _long_ will you go on believing it's okay to spend your life serving others who just use you?! WHEN WILL YOU LEARN THEY DON'T _CARE_?!"

I remember shaking, and he had noticed. He calmed with a long pause, his fists lowering and the rage draining from his eyes until they became grey and pale and somber, tired. Then he said after a moment, softly now, "Robin, I want you to think on this for a while: you can have whatever you'd like. I can _give you _whatever it is you desire. When was the last time someone offered something like this to you?"

I hadn't said anything, because I didn't know what to say, as reality seeped in slowly and painfully, with thoughts still raging then and making me fully process the truth of it all: the truth that Slade was _right_. Even when my father and I had been together there was seldom a moment when it was about me—actually, now that I think about it, probably none at all. And since when had the Titans _really _asked me what _I _wanted?...These, things I would consider for hours as I lay in my bed, in those times forcing myself to stay conscious even though I was exhausted, as I am now cautioned against.

And he told me to consider something else. "Robin," he'd said, looking at me intently. "I want you to think about what you want; not your former friends of course, but something for _yourself_. What is it that _you'd _like? I want to show you soon how easily it is with me you can have whatever you want—how easily someone like myself can give that to you. Think on that, Robin."

I did, though I didn't give him an answer, not right away—probably why we'd done so many errands like the one that night, because Slade was determined to show me that beauty of freeness and availability if I wouldn't first open up a very personal part of my heart to him like he was a confidential therapist. The red light—first of many, I might add—was simply icing on the cake, maybe if the cake was filled with blood and organs rather than sweet spongy yellow food, as if to ease me into what my life was about to become, as it became engulfed by that _freeness_ and "open-ended nature."

Because in reality, running a red light would be the least of my problems as the night progressed.

And even as he said it, I was hesitating—because even if things were bound to get worse, this gateway-crime couldn't just be accepted and mindlessly checked off like I was hoping and had planned so sternly. It would be easier, yes, but in that stoplight, that red glow, I remembered the dream of myself fighting Slade and unmasking him only to reveal that it was myself, having destroyed everything I cared about. It was as if if I ran this red light I would become that Robin and pretty soon would probably end up mowing down the Titans in an intersection along the way. Of course that was really illogical considering that I had especially emphasized in my imagination my own maniacal cackle as I did so, and then doing a little double-tap with the car on their bodies to make sure I had got them, or maybe just for fun. I didn't know, but either way my foot was slowly and steadily breaking, almost in a paralyzed fashion that was reacting solely out of fear and instincts—that, when I saw a red light on a normal day, I would have braked and waited like any normal citizen.

Needless to say this didn't please Slade.

Maybe he had used my facial expressions to interpret my vivid imagination, because he said, his eye lowered into an un-amused glare which sent chills through my spine and caressed my body with the cold of that night like an unwelcomed breeze, "Either you run this red light or you'll be running over a toddler at the expense of your friends. Your choice, Robin."

"You're a sick fuck!" I said, and when I saw his hand out of the corner of my eye moving to the button on his wrist, I said, as if to justify or save myself, quickly, "What if I wreck your _car_?!"

He just continued to glare at me as he said, simply, again, "Run it."

I did. The action was little more than if I'd been a robot and had been following an order mechanically. I actually shut my eyes and didn't think about what I was about to do and all the implications of doing it. My teeth were gritted, my hands tight to the wheel, waiting—knowing that we wouldn't escape that intersection unscathed.

But in reality that actually seemed to be the problem.

No, we didn't have a scratch; the SWK still gleamed beautifully in the low light of that night without even a chip in the pain, like she was back in her heyday with Slade riding around doing something more benign, warm faded sun making her glisten welcomingly. Surprisingly a time like this, a time when this city wasn't forever reminded of its villains because of what their actions had caused; a time when people weren't actually afraid to leave their homes because they didn't think in a million years anyone would ever mug them for money or come racing down the city streets at 200 mph. That didn't happen back then—when the city was untouched.

When I ran away here from my father the people were still friendly—and still unsuspicious. I had come here because of that clean aspect—the fact that I would never have my skills tried and judged and tired day after day because of criminals. I spent my time doing stupid little jobs for people in the city; working at a burger joint, where I always saw this crazy green kid who came in everyday and protested our use of meat. He made me laugh and when I started leaving with him after my shift I got fired because the owner thought I was conspiring with him to take down the meat industry. It was okay though, I can remember him saying. "I got a place you can crash with me." And he did—what would become Titan tower in the coming years.

Still I worked. I found a job at a music store and spent the majority of my time listening to the tracks for free and doing nothing all day. It should have been nice, but I was feeling restless. When a kid much of whose body was replaced by prosthetics came in and tried to steal music, I apprehended him. He had eyes that were really tired and like myself, had been through a lot, and I felt bad for him. I took the music back but gave him my own music player. The store manager was impressed and gave me a raise, and also referred me to the police, saying that I would become an excellent recruit for an officer in the city. Little went on that I'd need to be recruited for. I saw the kid a lot after that and he told me he was a homeless drifter who'd spent the majority of his life in big, progressive cities like this one stealing things to complete his body which had been destroyed in a fire (and which in the coming years would continue to deteriorate until the only thing that was human about him was his face); the CDs he was stealing, he said, could have the memory extracted but the complicated hard drive used within him.

Long story short, I ended up telling him where to crash that night.

During this time a guy would always come into the shop who I made friends with—a guy who called himself Will but wanted me to call him Wolf (much to his angry, I often called him Willy instead). He wanted music but had very little money so I made him a couple of CDs with the songs he liked the best. He was probably twenty, not old at all, with striking grey eyes you couldn't forget if you tried and short locks of black hair framing a thin face; always came in wearing nearly the same outfit, a pair of trashy jeans and a band t-shirt that he'd probably pulled out of the dumpster and ridiculous cowboy boots. He told me every time he came to the shop that he was going to make something of himself—do something important. He said his first priority was getting out of the trashy cars imported into the city from far-away. And he told me when he got a car worthy of him he'd get one for me, too, so I didn't have to walk to and from work every day; and he told me that when he'd made enough money the two of us could jump in a car together and leave the country so we could do something more significant. He was a dreamer—maybe a little creepy, maybe a little too forthcoming, but he was nice. He brought me lunch sometimes and often spent hours in the shop with me listening to songs each of us liked, taking turns and then likewise enjoying the other's choice. Soon he brought in car schematics and said he was onto something—and I humored him to make him happy. But then the war in Vietnam started and I didn't see him again. And to be honest, I missed him—even if he was the type of guy who laughed every time someone called me Richard and would always say "Who you mean, Dick? Dick over here? How can you call him Richard when he's such a Dick?" But then again I probably deserved that.

Throughout Vietnam that was when the city really went to shit. The crime rate rose probably by fifty percent, and during that time a few murders were reported. Too young to be drafted for the war, I quit my job at the music store joined the police force with the prosthetics kid, who I affectionately called Cy, and the green kid who went never actually told me his name but just went by Beast Boy (and needless to say I was pretty amazed by the powers he had that sparked that name, but all at once understood why he had spent the majority of his days protesting animal slaughter). But I was close to all of them, and after evaluation when I was the only one accepted I left with them, and never looked back.

"We don't need to be on the police force to help people," I said confidently—never regretting that decision. "What do they know anyway?"

And they didn't—not _anything_. They actually never knew about the alien girl with glowing red hair and sparkling green eyes who showed up in the city one day wearing nothing but a torn up and blackened skirt and scuffed boots and a necklace that looked like the metal had been seared—like she'd been through a fire or something similar. We saw her when Cy and I were going to eat something non-vegetarian, of course without BB, and we heard a loud boom from a few blocks down, so we hurried there. At the site there was a good deal of fire, and at first I thought it was a criminal—but it was just this _girl_, standing there looking around disorientedly. And when I saw her, without anything covering her breasts, and the majority of her long, smooth legs exposed and posed sexily, (and to be honest the skirt didn't hide too much in that area, either), my mouth dropped open and I think I was drooling. Cy wasn't any better, because even though he was mostly a robot he still had one good eye to take it all in and all the hormones of the fourteen-year-old boys we were. And the girl just walked up to us, her breasts bouncing, and said sweetly, "Um, excuse me, but I seem to be lost…could you tell me what solar system this is, please, or direct me to the nearest intergalactic communication device?"

We didn't ask any questions then, being as stunned as we were. But I think we both knew she was an alien the minute we saw her and knowing the way the police were they would have her studied or picked apart like a lab-rat considering the time-period we lived in the city. Collectively we just knew, almost immediately and simultaneously, that we had to keep this girl safe—and not just for her body. She was something special and we both knew it by just looking at her. So I gave her my shirt (and this is embarrassing but I haven't actually _washed _that shirt since that day, or worn it…I just smell it sometimes…) and we went to our little hideout, slowly evolving to the home we knew it as today. Later she would tell us her name was Starfire and would explain how she'd ended up in our city and where she had come from.

Again, needless to say, she ended up crashing with us at my offering—actually all of ours, especially BB who was just nodding his head, drooling, taking it all in like we had.

Some of the war veterans were coming back after a few years, having been discharged for their injuries. Among them, Sergeant Major Wilson who had lost an eye when he'd been pinned down and knifed by the enemy. There had been an interlude period between this time and the time of the war's beginning when everything had been relatively calm—surprisingly, with crime rate tumbling back down and the city returning to the peace it had once had. It was as if getting some of the soldiers back gradually was easing the minds of the people back home, or maybe the initial shock of the war had worn off. And for a while, as we caught Starfire up on the on-goings of the city and the world we were really hoping for peace for a while—hoping that that terror-inducing rein we'd all come here to escape but seemed to have had followed us was over. And for a while, it actually was. People were quiet and solemn but there was little crime, maybe because most of the criminals had been discharged to replace the wounded. And there was a little progression. Businesses reopening, the like. We built the tower (not the signature T, not yet) and made it really livable for the four of us. We noted almost every day the guy driving back and forth, doing crazy donuts and the like (and then taking notes in a notebook, like he was testing the car, or something) in the desert which is now the enemy territory, which then we could see from the tower before a slew of new buildings were built to resurrect a crime-ridden city or to further that crime. It could go either way. But we watched this guy out there almost every day, always wondering what in the hell he was doing.

And yet we never found out—because we never disturbed him, figuring he wasn't hurting anything.

Then we were introduced to the new car—the Kevorkian, a smash hit among everyone. This would be the heyday I was talking about, when everyone felt everything was okay because our city, a metaphor for the country, still had enough spirit and stamina to prosper—so everyone had one. They were cheap—cheap enough that we could have afforded one, but we never bought one—never found the need, even though Cyborg had wanted at more than one time to dismantle one to see what the "magic" was in it, what had made everyone so crazy. It might have been a good idea, in retrospect, but we never did. We were distracted at the time with the police reports we tapped into explaining that a pale girl dressed in black was showing up in the chapel during mass on Sunday, and apparently disturbing everyone, though she never did a thing up sit there and listen. Simultaniously the church was becoming a gathering place for every crow in the city, which we could see even before we'd arrived. We checked it out, and, peeking into the church where everyone had left, afraid to gather there because they believed there was a demon in the House of God, we saw her laying in one of the vestibules reading a Bible.

"They'll kill you if they think you're evil," I said after we stared at her silently for a few minutes, waiting to see, which of us, would do the talking, and she looked up.

"They're paranoid," her voice was unsurprised, matching her face. "Everyone in this place—paranoid. And prejudiced. I'm not doing anything wrong."

"I know," I said, sitting slowly down onto the seat with her. "But that's the way these people are. They're still stinging from the war and they just don't want to be sucked back into it, you know? It's like what they don't understand is immediately evil—like the "enemy.""

She'd sat up—looked at me, and knew I understood. I asked her if she wanted to crash with us. She didn't, not initially, but showed up a few days later after having been chased out of the church by a mob.

Her name was Raven, and we understood why she thought life was unfair and cruel—because for her, it was.

And soon things escalated into crime again—as if the Kevorkian had only stalled the impending uprising of criminals and thieves. In fact later we'd learn that the car had actually fueled the uprising because the whole process became quickly involved in much black market exchange linked to drug crimes and other up-and-coming crime lords put about by its manufacturer, SWK. An unnamed man who had roped more money and drugs and criminals into the whole thing than the town had had all together in its history. Wilson—a name people feared, respected, traded from ear to ear. People wanted to connect with him because they knew they'd strike it rich with his car venture. And what was once a hopeful, new page in the history of the city became a terrifying and dangerous game controlled by the one person who had like a Trojan horse taken the city by storm.

We were trying to take down Wilson—but we—_I_—never connected him with the Slade I knew and was also trying to bring to justice.

I never connected him to SM Wilson who'd lost an eye in 'Nam. But he had many faces. And even now as I uncover the truth about Slade's past I won't cease to be amazed. Especially when it came to the easy-going twenty-year-old who worked as a mechanic and come into the shop covered in oil and dirt but always bearing leftover pizza from a restaurant next-door to where he worked where he had been mooching food from the owner since he was probably my age.

There were a lot of things to wonder when it came to those faces—that mask…

There was glass everywhere but it wasn't that of the SWK. Drifting into robotic obedience I'd run the red light without even realizing it. A car pulling out to continue on to the side road to another town—and that was the kicker, that this person wasn't even _going _to the city and yet they had to _deal _with the city—hadn't had a second to react when our car even came into their line of vision, especially because the sound hadn't alerted them until Slade thought it would be cool to turn it back on to accent the crash, offset the quiet—maybe he was right. I didn't want to hear their screams and the sound of shattering glass, and twisting and bending and crunching metal and bones, the splatter of blood, as the Kevorkian smashed into the side, and, amazingly, flung it out to the side as if it were a ragdoll and roared forward, totally unscathed and amazingly without even the smallest lag. And when I'd pulled out of my safe-place, drawn by the sound of the engine and the crash muddling together in an all-encompassing terror, I slammed on the break, almost instinctively, but even then we were already yards away from the crash.

Considering the speed of the car, the abruptness at which I'd stopped, and the fact that I wasn't wearing a seatbelt—because really if you're going around running red lights you're probably not going to be the most concerned about safety—I should have been flung out of the car, and so should Slade. But again to further my amazement neither of use moved an inch from where we were sitting—my head didn't even bob forward or anything like that. As if we were totally unaffected by gravity outside—and maybe that was what was going on. Hell, if he could turn the sound of the engine off or do half of the other amazing little tricks he managed, he could probably defy gravity too. I wouldn't be surprised.

But I wished I had been flung from the vehicle and right to my death, so that I never had to think on what I had just done to the people in the car—who I believe I heard in a news report were a father and son traveling to go visit the grandmother in another town, before Slade turned the television off and told me to go to bed. The realization of what I had done even before then creeped up on me like a cold, unfriendly death and I sat there, shaking, my fingers stuck to the wheel like I'd super-glued them on there. I was just staring ahead of me, at the lights of the city, not allowing myself to look back because like a kid I was sure that if I just didn't look then it wouldn't be real, wouldn't be able to hurt me. But of course it did, anyway, because what I had done wasn't some pretend monster my imagination had made up to give me a cheap thrill, to create an unneeded conflict which could fuel some creativity in a kid—what I had done was very real, and very serious. Even if I hadn't looked I'd be damned.

And then it happened—something I hadn't done since the moment my first dad and my mom were taken from me.

I started crying.

And from there a slow progression of thoughts which my defenses couldn't keep from creeping in.

* * *

AN:

Hi everyone, I'm sorry I didn't update last night, ate a maraschino-cherry sundae and then found my chow-mien noodles and watched bad grandpa followed by (okay I gave in) the end, then spurred on by a picture I remember seeing of Robin as Christine Daae and Slade as the Phantom, mmm, those pairs are two ménage a trois I'd like to have ;) I watched the phantom of the opera for the twelfth time.

Oh you know what other ménage a trois would be fucking fantastic, I mean, okay, come on, let's have a little Starfire/Raven action, hells ya, I wish I was Robin when he saw her 6_6

But the point of this all is that if you want I'll update tonight. Um, yah, okay, gonna go try not to watch something that's gonna rape my childhood. Um, okay, shit, what is with the new PPG they just made? That's fucking disgusting.

~ILLHAVEABIGGYFRIESANDGIVEMESOMESHIT TODRINK!


End file.
